


A Return To Arms

by ununoriginal



Category: Kanjani8 (Band), NewS (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-20
Updated: 2008-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununoriginal/pseuds/ununoriginal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes two is not enough. Yokohina (if you squint).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Return To Arms

**Author's Note:**

> For the meme where you have to shuffle your Ipod and drabble on whatever songs come up. The 4th song is 周杰伦's ‘夜的第七章’.

Detective-Inspector Murakami Shingo had known it wasn't going to be a good day the moment he had stepped out of his house this morning, and his premonition had proven true not half an hour after he'd settled behind his desk to try and finish up some untyped reports.  
  
Now he found himself ducking out from under the yellow-and-black tape cordoning off the ramen shop to gaze wearily at the roiling grey sky.  Late morning sunlight fought a failing battle with the thick cloud cover, sending watery beams down to illuminate the slightly run-down exterior of the two-storey building.  Murakami squeezed his eyes shut tightly in an effort to make them less gritty, but when he opened them again, they still felt as dry as ever.  
  
The police had broken into the shop a little too late.  All that had greeted them at the scene was blood and death.  According to the witness (a neighbour who'd seen the entire event occur through the window left open on the second storey, via a high-powered telescope – which made Murakami think that even voyeurs must have been designed with some purpose, in the greater scheme of things), the ramen shop owner had entered the room with a carving knife, slit the throat of the victim, and then turned the weapon upon himself.  
  
Murakami reached inside his jacket for his cigarettes, lighting up and inhaling deeply as the facts automatically flashed in his mind.  
  
Kato Shigeaki, twenty-one, aspiring novelist.  'Rented' the room above the ramen shop for the past two years.  Was apparently in a stable relationship with his landlord, who also happened to be the owner of the ramen shop.  He had been slumped sideways across the old-fashioned typewriter he used to write his drafts, the half-congealed blood that trickled from the ragged wound encircling his neck seeping through the spaces in the keys.  
  
Koyama Keiichirou, twenty-four, owner of the ramen shop.  Was by all accounts a sweet, kindly young man who had inherited the restaurant from his parents, both of whom had passed away in an accident three years ago, and also a most doting, devoted lover to Kato, his alleged tenant.  He was crumpled on the floor next to the chair Kato had been sitting in, the hilt of the knife still protruding from in between his third and fourth ribs.  Surprisingly, most of the blood covering him wasn't actually his.  
  
The few neighbours they had questioned so far had all expressed deep shock and regret at the horrific crime, but had not been able to offer any more useful details.  Still, they loitered around the area, standing in small clumps of twos and threes, whispering to each other, avid eyes greedily trained on the doorway to the restaurant.  
  
The cloth curtain shielding the interior of the shop was drawn back, and Murakami's partner, Detective-Inspector Yokoyama Yuu stepped out, striding towards where Murakami was standing.  Absently, Murakami noted the fatigue smeared across Yokoyama's pale face, the dull exhaustion dimming his partner's eyes.  He probably shouldn't have pulled Yokoyama in after the other man had put in an all-night shift, but Yokoyama had always been the best with the actual crime scenes.  
  
The lashing wind whipped their hair and jackets about, bringing with it the hint of a storm, and threatening to even put out Murakami's cigarette.  Murakami tipped his head in the direction of their car, and he waited until they'd both got in, him in the driver's seat with Yokoyama instantly leaning back in the passenger's, before he asked, “So what's the verdict?”  
  
Eyes closed, Yokoyama held out the bloodstained photograph in the clear plastic bag to Murakami.  It showed Kato with another man, their arms around each other.  Their body language made it clear that theirs was an intimate relationship.    
  
“We cross-referenced this fellow's image with the social security database and managed to trace him,” Yokoyama explained, index finger tapping the man's handsome face.  “Yamashita Tomohisa, travelling salesman.  He's based here in Eito City, but spends half of his time out of town selling his products amongst the neighbouring towns.  There was a contact number on his database record so we got a hold of him.”  Yokoyama tosses the plastic bag onto the dashboard and runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the wavy fringe.  “He's been a regular to the restaurant since about a year ago, and apparently he and Kato had been conducting a secret affair for the past six months.  Kato was planning to move out, and they had broken the news to Koyama a couple of nights ago.”  
  
Murakami let out a quiet sigh.  “Another crime of passion then?”  
  
Yokoyama turned his head to look at his partner.  “Looks like it.  It's open-and-shut.  We have the witness, the weapon, and the motivation.  Everything's been accounted for.  Except for one man's broken heart.”  His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes as they met Murakami's were haunted.  
  
Murakami reached out to cover Yokoyama's hand resting listlessly upon his thigh.  After a moment, Yokoyama flipped his hand over and their fingers interlaced.  “You feel it too, don't you?”  
  
Yokoyama merely squeezed his hand in answer.  
  
“I know we've tried holding it off for as long as we can, but things are taking such a turn for the worse, it's getting bigger than the two of us can handle,” Murakami said gently.  “I think it's time to call them home.”  
  
And then he waited silently.  He knew the other would ultimately agree with him – he just needed some time to come to terms with it.    
  
Burakku had always hated to admit defeat.  
  
Outside the car, the raindrops started to splatter the windscreen.


End file.
